Plague City

Lincoln - DAY ONE - April 4th 2024

4:45 AM - The piercing sound of my phone's alarm breaks the early morning stillness, signalling the start of a new day. Waking up is always a struggle, as a restful night's sleep seems to elude me. I'm acutely aware of every sound, each one a potential disruptor of peace.

I get up, my muscles stiff and uncooperative, and make my way to the bathroom. The cold water on my face serves as a brisk awakening. In the spare room, against the faint morning light, I select my attire for the day ahead, all the while glancing out the window to gauge the temperament of the weather.

5:00 AM - Moving quietly, I navigate through the house, careful not to disturb the restful sleep of my wife and daughter. My bag is ready, packed with essentials-lunch, documents, and, indeed, a torch. Scarlet finds humor in my collection of torches, but to me, they represent a sense of preparedness. "Always ready," she quips.

At the downstairs mirror, I examine my appearance, ensuring that I present a composed exterior to the world, even if internally, I feel somewhat disassembled.

5:21 AM - I step out the door, my footsteps echoing through the quiet estate. The morning air is crisp, and I navigate the familiar path to the high street. I catch up to a man I've seen countless times. We've shared this walk for two years, yet his name remains a mystery. It's an odd game I play with myself-how long can I go without knowing? Just for my own amusement. "Morning," I greet him. His response is a gruff, "Alright, geezer." We fall into our usual conversation: the weather, the ongoing train strikes, and his exasperation with the youth who lack respect and push ahead in the bus queue.

5:35 AM - The regulars gather at the bus stop, a silent camaraderie forming as we await the first bus of the day. "Morning," I say to each of them, and they reply in kind. Among them is a lady in her mid-50s, always with a small suitcase on Thursdays. She regales us with tales of her weekend plans. Today, it's Brighton-a visit to one of her many friends. "Good on her," I think, admiring her zest for life. There's an exhibition they're excited about, something that promises amusement.

5:39 AM - The bus arrives, and we shuffle to our usual seats. Thankfully, the rain holds off today, and spring's gentle touch is in the air. I opt for the underground instead of my regular train-a 15-minute bus ride to the bustling heart of London. Sometimes, when the bus is too crowded, I choose this route. I despise being wedged among a sea of people, trapped and unable to disembark. The underground mirrors my expectations: crowded, bustling, and inching closer to central London.

6:45 AM - I step into the office building, greeted by the security guard's nod. Up to the 6th floor I go, where my desk awaits. Through the window, the Thames flows steadily, and the city skyline stretches out the south bank a patchwork of buildings and bridges. I log in, sifting through emails, and then embark on my daily inspection. The office must meet standards before my colleagues arrive, a quiet ritual that sets the tone for the day..

8:55 AM - Seated at my desk, I find my manager perched next to me at hers. She leans in, her expression puzzled. "What's with everyone today?" she muses. "What do you mean?" I inquire. "Well," she begins, "someone threw up over another person, and it looked like they had a fight. I got off the next stop, and the stench was unbearable. Then, as I walked to the office, I witnessed a few more people vomit near the shops. And just around the corner by St. Paul's, there was an outright street fight. It's been quite the morning." I chuckle. "Hope you didn't catch anything. I'm not in the market for a surprise illness." She grins back. "Do you want a coffee?" I ask. "I'm good, thanks," she replied, taking a call.

9:05 AM - I descended to the atrium, a sunken oasis nestled below street level. Its expanse stretched upward, culminating in a glass roof on the 6th floor. The coffee station, usually abuzz with a bustling crowd, now hosted only me and two other souls. I addressed Kirsty, the hospitality manager. "Where is everyone?" I inquired. Kirsty's eyes rolled heavenward. "Three no-shows, two sick calls-it's just me, Marko," she lamented. "Could be that sickness bug," I suggested. "People are falling ill left and right." I secured my coffee, ascended to the 6th floor, and embarked on yet another sweep. The office, eerily quiet, deviated from its usual hive of activity. Desks stood empty, waiting for their occupants. Settling back at my own desk, I took a contemplative sip. Katherine, my manager, leaned over. "Looks like it's just you and me today," she observed.